Russell scratched his ear with a pencil and pointed at the crossword clue. 'Hilly region in Hungary, twelve letters, second letter R.'
'TRANSDANUBIA,' said Trevor, basking in the late afternoon sun.
'Yes, that fits. Thanks.' Russell filled in the blanks. 'You've turned into a walking encyclopedia. Is there anything you don't know?'
'Oh, there are many things I don't know, but when it comes to general knowledge Aidme puts the answer straight into my mind.' He opened his eyes and glanced sideways at the grey football floating at his shoulder. 'Right now, he tells me our good friend the professor is approaching.'
'Is he? I wonder what he wants this time.'
Six minutes later, an old-fashioned helicopter buzzed over the estate's tree tops, wobbling in their direction.
Russell squinted. 'Isn't that one of those things they use for dusting crops with insecticides? Has the professor developed a fear of insects?'
'ENTOMOPHOBIA, twelve letters,' said Trevor. 'Probably the only thing he could find that works after our little escapade destroyed every single piece of electronic equipment in the world.'
The brothers grimaced at each other. Thankfully, very few people knew the truth. The professor had convinced the world's press a solar flare was to blame.
The helicopter crashed onto the manor's expansive lawn with a jarring bump. Before the rotors stopped, Professor Maurice Masterson fell from the open-sided cabin and swore.
Russell dashed to his aid and lifted him to his feet.
'Thank you,' said the professor, dabbing his brow with a starched handkerchief. 'Damned thing should be put back in the museum where it belongs. Better still, scrapped. Get your calloused claws off me, I'm not a decrepit pensioner yet.'
'Come up on the veranda,' said Russell, ignoring the professor's typical sourness, 'we're drinking tea and Trevor was helping me with a crossword.'
'Helping you waste time is more like it. You're a pair of shirkers.'
They climbed a wide row of stone steps and the professor collapsed into a well-cushioned patio chair. His ever-watchful eyes scanned their surroundings and settled on a movement where the expansive lawn boarded a distant wood. A rusty, beaten-up van crunched and rattled along the shingle road, trailing a cloud of dust.
'Who's in the wreck, and why is it coming here?' asked the professor.
'Ah,' said Russell, 'that's probably the chef. We're having a barbecue and I decided to let someone else do the cooking. I found an advert in the classified section of the local paper,' he patted his folded newspaper, 'and since the telephones aren't working, I sent Bert with instructions.'
Alf and Bert, the newly employed security guards, had also noticed the approaching van.
'That's him,' said Bert, stroking and reassuring his two Alsatians, 'I recognise his old banger.'
One back wheel locked as the van skidded to a halt. A short gypsy stepped out. Using his aged strength, he swung the car door shut. It screeched on dry hinges, banged against the frame, and flopped open again. He turned his back to the van, stretched out his hand ready for shaking, and stumbled up onto the veranda.
'Misters Clouds?' he said, offering his grubby palm. Broad jaws and dark-brown eyes set wide apart gave him the appearance of a friendly old Mastiff. A red headscarf stretched across his scalp, and golden earrings glittered from his protruding ear lobes. 'I'm going to make the most delicious spare ribs and pork-chops and chipolatas you've ever tasted. The secret is in the marinade, and MY marinades are the best, you tell me if they're not.'
Two crisp bodyguards hopped down from the helicopter. While one searched the van, the other approached the chef. Automatically, the chef raised his arms.
'Pay no attention to my men,' said the professor, 'it's their job–checking for weapons and the such.'
'I shan't complain,' said the chef. 'You can never be too careful these days. I'm used to being frisked and I don't mind a bit. I wouldn't hurt a fly. There's not a trace of nastiness in me.'
Satisfied, the bodyguards took up positions on each corner of the veranda.
The chef shuffled to the gas-grill, lit it, then fetched a large hamper from his van.
Professor Masterson poured himself tea. As he sipped, he relaxed. Without doubt, this marvellous estate was his favourite spot in London, and these two brothers, barely old enough to vote, managed the entire property alone. He lowered his voice. 'I came to see you boys because I need to meet your parents.'
'Is that the only reason?' said Russell, disappointed. 'We'd like to meet our parents too, but they're always busy with some new project or another. It's been ages since we spoke to them. Why do you need to meet them?'
Stirring milk and sugar into his tea, the professor wished life could be as comfortable and problem free as he felt right at this moment. With a sigh, he said. 'You boys have become two of my closest associates. May I say friends?'
'Thank you,' said Russell, 'the feeling is mutual.'
'Good. Now then, you will agree friends have no secrets and can ask favours of one another?'
'Absolutely.'
'Confounded nuisance really, but I make it my business to carry out an intimate research of all my closest friends. It's a necessary precaution, a part of my life, all in the name of security. My research has revealed everything about your parents, and I believe, from what I discovered, that I need their assistance. To meet them, I need your assistance.'
The chef strolled up and interrupted. 'Excuse me gentlemen, I'm sorry to butt in, but the grill is ready. I KNOW you're hungry so what would you like, I have everything, you name it.'
'Go away you nincompoop,' said the professor. 'Can't you see we're having a private conversation?'
Instead of leaving, the chef stared at the professor with a glint in his eye. 'I know YOU Sir, and may I say what a great honour it is to make your acquaintance. Here Sir, allow me the honour of shaking your hand.' He grabbed the professor's hand and pumped it up and down.
'You have me at a disadvantage–who the hell are you?'
Bert's two Alsatians growled and a bodyguard drew a gun.
'A fan Sir, don't be alarmed. I wouldn't hurt a fly. There's not a trace of nastiness in me. You are the great Maurice Masterson, twice Olympic gold medallist in fencing.'
'Ah, yes.' The professor released his hand and straightened his bow tie, flattered someone still recognised him. 'Yes, quite correct, but that was a long time ago. Where do you come from? I can't make out your accent.'
'Now then, Sir, I am a Romany, call me a gypsy if you like. I have travelled all over the world and can't seem to settle anywhere. Sometimes I am a tinker. Other times I am a fortune-teller. Today, I am a humble chef and I'll leave you gentlemen in peace.'
'Bloody foreigners,' said the professor as soon as they were alone. 'Now then, what was I saying? Oh yes, your parents.'
'Shall we move to the table?' said Trevor, 'looks like the food's ready. There's enough for all so I hope you'll join us?'
'Yes, thank you, stop interrupting, we are discussing your parents.'
'And exactly what is it you've discovered about them?' asked Russell as they seated themselves.
'As I said, I've done a thorough research. Your well-regarded parents have developed, own, and run a successful pharmaceutical industry. Your mother specialises in microbiology and genetics. Your father specialises in chemistry and mineralogy.'
'Yes,' chuckled Russell, 'a pair of dry old sticks. The problem is they travel the world searching for samples, and they seldom let us know where they are.'
The professor sat sideways in his chair, facing Russell. 'My intelligence informs me they are in the Falklands, which suits the situation rather well.' He leant forward, covering his mouth. 'To put it short, I require their assistance to save the world. It's that confounded iceberg you two dragged back from space. The damned thing's a chemical time bomb…'
'Excuse me please.' The chef set down a plate of steaming sausages.
The professor threw himself back in his chair and groaned.
'Now, I don't want you to think I'm pushy,' said the chef, 'but I know a thing or two and I like to have my say.'
All three men raised their eyebrows.
'You two are young,' he said, stretching his arms towards Trevor and Russell, 'and young people are generally rash. But YOU two are not rash. You two are sensible and responsible and destined for great achievements.' He placed his index fingers against the side of his temples and winked. 'What I have to say is this: It's no good putting more wood on the fire after it's gone out.' He patted his nose with a greasy finger and left the men in shocked silence.
'Peculiar chap,' said the professor, studying him as he moved away. 'What do you suppose he meant by that? Sounds like a secret code. I'll have my men check him out.' He shook his head and made a mental note. Before continuing, he made sure the chef was out of hearing range. 'Because of your parent's unique expertise, I firmly believe they are the only people competent enough to analyse and neutralise the iceberg's lethal properties.' He blinked at his watch. 'Let's see. The Falklands are on the other side of the world, close to Argentina, chronologically three hours behind us. If we leave immediately in your Cloud contraption we can join your parents for lunch.' He turned to his bodyguards and the two burly security men. 'You men enjoy the barbecue,' he called. 'I'll be back within two hours…'